--- T O M   D E V A N E Y

The tree nobody I know can name
grows from cement atop the top 
	of all subway platforms.
It won't stop growing from crumbled concrete.   
The one nobody I know can name
has many names, but it's not the "tree of God"; 
I've found it in poems by many friends 
though none of my friends are poets.
My closest friends are a ghost and a cloud.
Every tree I'm talking about is a painting 
	written by a poet, 
just as all poems are trees written by painters.

For do we call the recently noticed tall one
	out on the fire escape?
Before I looked out of the window 
it was in nine poems, half a film treatment and 
at least four of my last seven meals. 
Sacrificing the possible beauty of its name,
What can they say about that?
The tree nobody I know can name 
	doesn't need encouragement, 
but I encourage (if by nothing else) 
	by not discouraging it.
The one year head ache you didn't know you had, 
	till you didn't have it. 

The concrete continues to grow.